Silver Hair, Silver Harp
by Valyriana
Summary: It is the year of False Spring and a great tourney is held at Harrenhal... What led Rhaegar Targaryen to crowning Lyanna Stark the Queen of Beauty and throwing the realm into turmoil? Rhaegar/Lyanna, rated M for violence and, yes of course, sexual content.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, it all belongs to GRRM. I just love the mystery about the year of the False Spring and Rhaegar/Lyanna. I didn't do proper research at all, so might stray a little bit from canon. Hope you don't mind, and hope to read your review! :)

* * *

The long column of riders and carts stretched out endlessly before the Starks and their men. Lyanna eyed the road that led up to the immense castle in front of them. Already the day before, they had seen Harrenhal far on the horizon, yet it kept steadily growing as they rode, and the riders at the end of the column looked small as ants as they vanished in the shadows of those huge, long towers.

"What an enormous fortress", Ned commented.

"Yes – enormous and strong, and no use at all down here in the green lands. Harren should have come north and built his castle at the Wall", Brandon growled.

Lyanna agreed. "And even better than that would be those dragons that burned it black. They would keep us warm in the long night to come. Look how black those roofs are."

"There they go again", Ned said gave his father an exasperated look. "It's only been a week since we joined our parties at the kingsroad, and I've barely heard talk of anything else."

Lord Rickard gave his second-born son a faint smile. "The wolf's blood is strong in those two. Yet you are right. This is not the time to talk about wildlings and White Walkers. We must tread carefully among all those noble houses. I heard rumors that even the King himself would be present." Lyanna and Brandon exchanged a glance. They had heard the same rumors from the servants and freemen and hedge knights that swarmed the roads to Harrenhal, and more: that the King was losing the grip on his mind, that he was going mad.

Before them, a big wheelhouse blocked more than half the road while impatient riders and messengers forced their horses around it. Lyanna pressed her horse to the left and their group formed a thin line in order to advance. The wheelhouse creaked and shook like a merry old crone, and it was about as fast, too. Lyanna heard Brandon snorting loudly, probably as much from impatience as from disgust about the sweet smells of perfume that oozed out of the creaking thing. She closed in on Brandon as soon as they had passed the obstacle. Following the same instinct, both urged their horses on to a faster trot.

"Do you smell that stink, sister?", Brandon asked, his disgust hardly contained.

"I smell it all", she replied. "Though I don't mind the smells of dirt and horses and the road."

"No, the perfumes. Those Southron Lords and Ladies use that sweet stuff trying to conceal that they shit and sweat like other living beings. As if some sweet oil would turn them into flowers." Lyanna grinned at that notion. But Brandon was not amused, she saw.

"Anyone who knows how to really use a nose could sniff it all out in one breath. Those highborns only want to fuck and kill each other, just like any animal." Lyanna said nothing to that. She was used to Brandons angry moods and his foul language, and she knew him well enough to not try and urge him towards cautiousness. He had long stopped listening, at least as long as they both dreamed the wolf dreams. Those had started many years ago, Lyanna could not quite remember when. She had long been used to them before the realization had come that they were, in fact, not dreams at all. What she heard and smelled in the body of a she-wolf was just as real as what she did during the day, as a daughter of Winterfell. Even their father, solemn and solid Lord Rickard Star, believed it now. The incident with the wildlings had been proof enough. Lyanna watched a group of beautiful highborn ladies in dresses of intricate patterns, seated in an open carriage, whispering and tittering through the perfumed handkerchiefs they pressed against their noses. She was glad of her simple but fine woolen breeches, the warm tunic and grey coat lined with fur she wore. These were proper riding clothes, and Lyanna loved to ride nearly as much as she loved being a wolf.

The Stark banners flapped high in the air, the direwolf sigil snapping everywhere from lances, on coats and breastplates. Grey and white they rode into the black shadows of Harrenhals towers and entered between even blacker walls. The enormous gate would have swallowed the full height of their banners three times. Excited, Lyanna and her brothers looked around and tried to take it all in. The mass of people was overwhelming. Even Brandon seemed no longer angry but watched with an alert curiosity. He looked ready, even eager for a challenge. The Starks were greeted and welcomed by Lady Whent and then shown their quarters. The chambers were huge, twice as big as their rooms in Winterfell, and Lyanna and Benjen chased each other around laughing wildly. The echoes of their shrieks came back loudly, so high was the ceiling.  
"Please, that's enough", Ned said in a fruitless attempt to calm them down. Brandon only laughed, his eyes sparkling mirth. However, the fun abruptly ended when her handmaid brought Lyanna the dresses she was supposed to wear for the tourney. With a huge sigh, she went to her chamber to bathe and change. During the long journey on horseback it had been easy to forget the fact that she was a highborn daughter. On the road there hardly was a difference between her and her brothers. It was not so bad, though - at least she had been allowed to chose which dresses to bring. For the feast this evening Lyanna chose something simple, befitting the austere north she represented as a Stark: a dress of soft grey wool so dark it shimmered like iron or silver, depending on the light, slashed at her elbows to show the white linen beneath and fringed with blue stripes at hem and sleeves. She did her hair herself, allowing it to fall over one shoulder in a thick braid. Donning a pair of soft leather shoes, she joined her brothers and father for the feast. The hall of hundred hearths awaited them awash in candlelight and the delicious smells of the first course.

The King had indeed come to Harrenhal for the tourney. The royal party was seated at the high table, whereas Lord and Lady Whent sat half a bench lower, on the table usually reserved for highly respected guests that could not fit at the high table.  
"This is craven", Brandon said when he had studied the arrangement. "Do they bow so low before the King as to leave their own high table?" Incredulous, he looked at his siblings across the table. "What sort of a host is this Lord?"  
"Guard your tongue, Brandon", Lord Rickard said with a warning glance. "You have the right of it, but by the gods, don't speak about it. Not here."

"Where is the Queen?", Lyanna asked. "The woman besides King Aerys is too young, is she not?"

"That must be princess Elia, the wife of the prince Rhaegar", Ned said. Since he was fostered in the Eyrie, he knew a great deal more about the Southron nobility than the rest of them combined. "You can see she is from Dorne, she has the dark golden skin of the Dornishmen. And by her side sits the crown prince, Rhaegar." Lyanna had noticed him, too. His silver hair was striking, nothing one ever saw up in the North. He wore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his doublet, scarlet on black ground. Lyanna remembered her comment during the journey this afternoon. She would love to see a dragon, one of those wonderful creatures from the past. Many a Targaryen King and Queen had flown from the South to the Wall on dragonback and granted the Nights Watch land and gold to defend the realm, back in the days where fire and living flesh had not been opposites, but one.

After the food, they were joined at the table by Ned's friend Robert Baratheon, who had lost both his parents recently and was Lord Baratheon now. To Lyanna he looked like a boy still, but he was tall and muscular, a warrior without doubt. His blue eyes shone with adoration and a not-so subtle promise of his manly capabilities as he greeted her. Lyanna laughed and kissed him on the cheek. She liked Robert. He had visited Winterfell on a few occasions before and always brought with him loud, booming laughter and great spirits for tales and hunting. He was the kind of man everyone wanted close in a battle. And she might even have considered his unspoken invitation into his bed, if not for Ned. Her brother was a very close friend to Robert and would inevitably hear about it, or guess enough. Robert was not one for keeping secrets or being modest. And as much as Lyanna was tempted to trace each and every one of those strong muscles on Roberts body, she valued the esteem of her brother a lot higher. Ned had a very strong sense of honor. So Lyanna teased Robert back and settled with another serving of spun sugar and lemon tarts. No matter how much Brandon scorned the Southern ways, she could not get enough of those sugary pastries.

When the dancing began sometimes later, Lyanna excused herself from the table. She stayed long enough to observe Brandon, confidently striding towards a group of highborn ladies who had eyed him none too subtly the last hour, followed eagerly by Robert and rather reluctantly by Ned. Lyanna grinned at the picture. Obviously, Brandon's disdain was not near strong enough to withstand the temptations of some of those sweet Southron flowers. She hoped he would chose his words carefully and smash no toes. Then Lyanna noticed that her standing alone had led to the very wrong impression that she wanted to dance or needed a chivalrous rescuing of any sort, and only a quick reaction and some careful maneuvering around the servants led her to escape the hall before several overly helpful Sers reached her. The guards outside the hall made no move to stop her. The corridors were teeming with servants, common folk and knights running around on a last errand before the jousting that would start the next day. Considering how much wine had flowed at the feast, Lyanna was glad she wore a small knife strapped to her thigh. She knew she could defend herself against most men, as long as they wore no plate and mail. With purposeful strides Lyanna set out to find the one thing she had most looked forward to in Harrenhal.

The library was as cold as winter compared to the heat in the hall before, and pleasantly silent. Lyanna soon had the old and wrinkled librarian convinced that her interest in books was true, and he brought her several old tomes after she had described what she was looking for. Seated comfortably at a table and with enough candles to last twice during the night, Lyanna gave the man her warmest thanks and lost herself between the pages. She was halfway through an especially intriguing account of a maester some two hundreds years ago as she heard footsteps approaching between the bookshelves. That would have to be the librarian, but no, her instincts told her otherwise – these feet moved too swiftly, yet with much less noise. Lyanna looked up and met two deep lilac eyes. She recognized him even before her eyes found the scarlet dragon on black over his chest. Rhaegar, it was Rhaegar Targaryen – the crown prince. The urge to continue her reading vanished as Lyanna became aware of who he was and what behavior was appropriate towards the son and heir of the King.

"My prince", she said. Quickly, she stood and professed the tiniest of curtsies.

"My lady", he answered. "Please, be at ease. I do not wish to disturb your reading." Although his face gave no hint of his emotions, Lyanna sensed that he felt as uncomfortable as her. Remembering the way the ladies had looked at him in the hall and swarmed around him like a cloud of moths around a candle, Lyanna suddenly understood the prince perfectly. He had come here alone to read, obviously, yet now court protocol would require him to attend her, highborn lady that she was, to speak to her and entertain her. In the same split second as she had the thought, Lyanna realized how young Rhaegar was – he could not yet be much older than Brandon.

"Thank you, my prince", she replied. "I wish you good reading as well." And with these words, she took her seat again and turned to her book, yet not without a glance back. It seemed the prince was rather relieved than offended about her reaction. She listened to his footsteps for a while, until he seated himself at another table somewhere across the room. Lyanna returned to her reading and enjoyed the comfortable silence. She had completely forgotten about her surroundings when sometimes – hours? - later the librarian showed up to light a fire in the hearth. With the fire crackling, Lyanna became aware of how cold it had become, and taking the candle and the book, she moved to a table closer to the fireplace. She knew it was late and she should return to her chambers – her brothers would soon miss her – but the reading had fascinated her and she just _had_ to read a little more. Only a little bit more, she told herself. After all, she would probably never have the chance to come upon a copy again.

It was sometimes later that Lyanna stood to stretch and feed the fire that she noticed prince Rhaegar again. He had moved close to the fire as well, but had stopped at her table and looked at the open book with such surprise that even with his carefully controlled countenance, he could not hide it fully.

"I see you are reading maester Morrants _Of The Longe Nighte and Its Dreadfule Creatures_ ", he said as she approached him. His tone betrayed more than a little curiosity, yet no accusations.

"Yes." Lyanna decided that there was no purpose in hiding her un-ladylike interest in tales and accounts of the long night, as unseeming as he might think it was. She straightened slightly and choose her words carefully. "I am well aware that the accounts of maester Morrant are known only as frightening and horrible stories to scare children with, but we take a different view on his accounts in the North. The Wall is close and the brothers of the Nights Watch bring us tales from their rangers which are no stranger nor darker than those of maester Morrant. I believe most of it is true, and if I take any thrill from reading, it is the thrill of preparing to face an enemy. Much as it must be thrilling to study the competition before a joust", she added, trying at last to bring the conversation back towards a topic he might be more inclined to answer – if he had the grace to even continue speaking to a strange northern girl with queer interests.

His eyes were on her intently as he weighthed her words, no trace of humor in them.

"Jousting is nothing but child's play", he finally replied, "when compared with the war of ice and fire that is to come." There was a long moment of silent understanding.

"We both have come here for the same purpose, it seems", he murmured with a gesture towards the book.

"Oh", Lyanna said, surprised and slightly distressed. "You have been looking for this book? Please, then, take it..."

"No, not at all", he quickly interrupted. "I have read it so often that I know half of maester Morrants accounts by heart now. Four copies I have discovered and two of them are mine." The ghost of a smile stole upon his lips "It would be my pleasure to make you a gift of one."

Lyanna felt a sudden and overwhelming surge of hope. She had never before considered that the royalty in the South would be interested enough or could even be a true ally when the long night would come. And now this! The crown prince, the man who would be the next King of Westeros, shared her belief, her fears and worries. She could not help but smile back at him, unable to wrap her gratitude in proper words.

"That would be… a wonderful gift, my prince. I thank you very much." The book was a valuable item, but the new feeling of hope and purpose was the true, invaluable gift. If the prince noticed her state of turmoil, her wild emotions, he gave no hint of it. Instead, he gestured toward the book.  
"Have you read the chapter about obsidian?", he asked.  
"Dragonglass. Yes. It was here..." Lyanna seated herself and flipped through the pages.  
"There is one passage that you absolutely must read in detail", Rhaegar said. He bent down over the table right next to her and started talking animatedly. Lyanna had not even time to marvel at how quickly all limits of court protocol and fears of impropriety were gone between them. She looked up at his serious face, his eyes scanning the pages purposefully, and recognized a true ally, for now and all the times of peril and war to come. They kept talking, sharing their knowledge and both promising to send books, until the fire had burned down entirely and the icy night finally forced them out of the library.

"It is a good thing we met, my Lady", the prince told her by way of saying good-night. Smiling, he shook his head, his eyes vivid despite his obvious tiredness "Aemon might have told me you visited him so often with your brothers, asking him the very same questions as I did in my letters. Not a single word!"

"Maester Aemon is wise beyond my understanding", Lyanna replied. It was then that it dawned on her that the old maester must be a relative of the prince. Aemon was, after all, a Targaryen name. Her head swam. When she was finally in her bed and warm again under the blankets, she still remembered looking back over her shoulder, again and again, to assure herself it had not all been a dream. Rhaegar had done the same, had looked and once even turned back, as if remembering something important he needed to tell her, yet he had stopped and finally the dark corridor had swallowed him.

* * *

The she-wold strode through the wet grass on four paws, sniffing the air. Her pack was all around her, sated from the kill they had made earlier tonight. The wolves of the riverlands were a small but lean breed, and there were many packs. A big grey shape lumbered near her and nuzzled her side. Lyanna recognized him. _Brother_. Her human side regained a sense of consciousness. Tail wagging, she stopped and sniffed at her brother questioningly. He was as curious as her. The man-smells drifting from the lakeside into the woods were intense. The marks of the other wolves had told her a lot about the woods, the prey and the man-den. She could see it from this hill in the woods. _Castle_ , her human side knew. The pack was nervous about the unusual activity. But she was not afraid, and neither was her brother. With a howl, she started running, and they followed.

The cold air in her nose told her a thousand stories. Filtering through the tales of mud and grass, of elk and bear and deer, Lyanna noticed again what she had learned from the packs in the north before: that this was no smell of spring, but a promise of snow and ice. The wolves knew that winter still had them deep in its cold fangs. _False spring_.

When they reached the camps, only her brother was still with her. The pack knew to stay away from this man-den, afraid of the iron claws they wielded, and the fire. Man-smell meant salty iron, blood, smoke and burning pain. Lyanna made no sound as she slid closer. Ears upright, she picked up man-voices. She had stopped bothering to try and understand man-words. Instead, she listened to the undertones. Here, none were aggressive. There were sounds of contentment, of excitement, and here and there the sounds of mating. The man-smell told of fresh meat in abundance, plenty enough so no squabbles would break out. They were healthy, and felt secure. Lyanna was curious and made towards the great man-den, but her brother crossed her path and pressed her back. She bared her teeth at him, snapping at his jaws, but he stood his ground. He was bigger and older than her, clearly stronger. His smell was dominating, requiring her to submit. She did and he lead her back into the deeper woods. They often fought, mostly because she challenged him. Sometimes she won, being faster and tougher. Her brother was stronger, but strength did not matter alone. Restless, she snapped at twigs, growling deep in her throat. She felt the urge to explore more, to find out about the man-den. Dimly, she knew her human form was inside the castle, surrounded by strange and foreign packs. She did not like it. Finally, her brother spun around and jumped at her, growling menacingly. She fought back and they tumbled through the grass, snapping and clawing at each other, until steam rose from both their furs in the cold air. Then, pressing close, they mated. Afterwards the she-wolf trotted back towards her pack on lighter paws, feeling satisfied.

Lyanna woke and stretched her body. For a brief moment, the memory of the wolf dream was vivid – the scents intensive, the taste of blood on her tongue, the animal lust a strong urge within her – but the impressions quickly diffused. She jumped out of bed. Had she really again, with…? Lyanna bared her teeth at her image in the mirror and smiled dryly. She and Brandon had talked a lot about their wolf dreams, but never about _that_. Leaving her chamber, Lyanna found all her brothers already awake. Brandon gave her a wolfish grin and she returned it. The dark sparkle in his eyes that told her just how much he enjoyed having won the fight. She ignored him, focusing on Ned and Benjen instead. Brandon enjoyed the wolf dreams a bit too much for her liking, and his wild moods and rash behavior sometimes gave her the uneasy feeling that he did not strictly keep the wolf and the man apart. Maybe it was easier for her, she thought. As soon as she had put on her dress, she was a woman again in a matter of minutes, a woman grown and flowered, and highborn at that. Today, she had chosen a simple blue dress that ended just below her knees, with blue woolen trousers to go beneath. She would be able to run and could even climb, if necessary. Not that it was likely, as she was supposed to watch the journey from a comfortable seat. Suddenly, the memory of her encounter las evening came back to her. _Rhaegar_ _Targaryen_. She could hardly wait for the moment she could return to the library.


End file.
